


Two Slow Dancers

by Arriva



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Alex is surprisingly good at holding her liquor, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Fluff, Late Night Conversations, Secret Relationship, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 23:51:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17672435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arriva/pseuds/Arriva
Summary: Late one night after a disappointing case, Alex and Strand drink. And dance.





	Two Slow Dancers

"What a waste of fucking time."

In a little dive bar just off the I-5, Alex throws back her third tequila shot. She and Strand are three for three, and even though she's half Strand's size, the alcohol's hitting him harder than her. That or he suddenly finds her  _really_ funny.

Speaking of, he fumbles for the glass of water he's barely touched. He says, "I wouldn't say that..." only to trail off when the simple task of picking up a cup and drinking requires much more brainpower than usual. Alex watches his hand slip once, then twice, then finally close around the glass. It's weirdly captivating. No amount of PhDs can make you immune to the power of alcohol.

"We found the source of the alleged demonic activity," Strand continues. "Even if it was-"

"Don't say it."

"It was-"

" _Don't_ fucking say it," Alex says, pointing her finger at him.

Strand laughs in animated huffs. If Alex didn't know him, she'd think he was having an asthma attack. His laughter is contagious and Alex doubles over at just how fucking ridiculous this day has been. "At least-" He takes a deep breath to steady himself. "At least we can say we solved this case."

"Paul is gonna kill me! We can't use this for an episode!" Alex leans back on the barstool and stares at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Whoever started this bar was going for an 80s arcade type of feel, but they clearly gave up after buying a  _Ms. Pac-Man_ machine and a jukebox. The music is nice though. A Fleetwood Mac song plays through the speakers. "When Paul kills me, can you take over as host?" she says.

"If you'll allow me to make some content adjustments," Strand says. "I'd like to explore our cases from a more scientific angle."

"As what? Dick Strand the Science Man?"

They laugh with the energy of two middle schoolers who just discovered dick jokes. It's nice to laugh. For the past eight hours, she's wanted to kick herself. The drive only gave her plenty of time to ruminate on how much she fucked up this case.

Strand was the one who suggested they pull over. To "get food."

Technically, the bar serves food.

Even if neither one of them has ordered any.

Alex leans over the bar. "Can I get another shot?" she says. When did her voice get so loud?

"Make that two," Strand says with an uncharacteristic lilt to his voice.

When the bartender -a heavily tattooed man in this thirties- brings over the tequila shot, she downs it the second it's in her hand. "We traveled for _two days_ ," Alex says.

"We did," Strand says. If Alex was sober, she might have picked up on the hint of amusement in his voice.

"Two days of travel for a  _raccoon_."

"I'm more worried about a raccoon than demons."

Alex groans. The moment where Strand pulled the floorboard back in the kitchen to reveal the source of the weird bangs and scratching will haunt her for the rest of her life. She hopes that raccoon is happy. They  _did_ travel two days for him.

Fleetwood Mac ends, and "Just Like Heaven" by The Cure drifts out of the jukebox. Strand catches Alex smile to herself. "What?"

"Nothing, just..." Her head tilts, listening to the dreamy guitar riff. "I love this song. I remember dancing to it my senior prom."

It was 1994. _Reality Bites_ had just come out, and Alex really wanted to look like Winona Ryder. Derek Freeman, who worked on the school newspaper with her, asked her to prom, and she said yes. She liked him enough. He was also cute thanks to a growth spurt between junior and senior year. He got her a corsage of red roses, she snuck airplane bottles of vodka into the gymnasium, and they made it to second base in the back of Carrie Dunlap's convertible. It was a fun night. They never saw each other again after graduation.

"Do you dance?" Alex asks Strand.

He huffs out a laugh and takes his fourth shot. Only when he feels Alex's eyes boring into him does he say, "Was that a serious question?"

"Yes!" Alex says. "Do you dance?"

"No."

"No!?"

"Nope."

"Never!?"

He looks down at the chipped wooden countertop. "When you're six foot four, dancing is... not recommended."

"Oh, come on." Alex jumps off the barstool, fueled by the song and the alcohol coursing through her body. "Dance with me."

"I don't think that's a good idea-"

"We don't have to do anything complicated," Alex says, grabbing his hand.

"I really don't-"

"Come  _on,_ Richard." Through the sheer willpower that is Alex Reagan, Strand stumbles to his feet. She pulls him to the dance floor in the middle of the bar. Considering they're the only two people on it, it's not really a dance floor. More of an empty spot that just happens to be good for dancing.

"So how do we do this?" he says.

"You have  _two_ PhDs, how do you not know how to do this?"

Between Alex's instructions ("Your left hand," "No,  _my_ left," "Your right hand, but _my_ left,") and fits of laughter, Alex and Strand stumble into a dance. Their fingers lace together. Strand's right hand ( _his_ right) sneaks around her waist, pulling them closer together.

And they dance. Not very well, and Strand stumbles over his feet more than once. But they slowly get lost in the music. Strand even twirls her once.

"You lied," Alex whispers in his ear.

"Did I now?"

"You _can_ dance."

When "Fade Into You" by Mazzy Star comes on, their feet slow down. They drift into a sway. Strands arms settle around her waist. Her head fits almost too perfectly against his chest, nestled right above his heart. She can hear his heartbeat quicken.

She never wants this to end. Not the dance. This thing they have. She wants it to stay in this perfect little bubble they've created, apart from Nic, apart from Paul, apart from everyone.

At some point, they'll have to come clean.

"I think I love you."

Alex lifts her head. "What?"

His eyes look even bluer in the dim light of the bar. "Alex Reagan, I think I love you."

She could soar right now. Despite the alcohol, Alex knows he meant what he said. Alex puts a hand to his cheek. "I think I love you too."

Yes, they can stay here for just a little while longer.

The kiss they share is a slow, tender one, like the song they dance to.

**Author's Note:**

> A little something! A very mushy, very fluffy little something.
> 
> And yes, I did make a very self-indulgent [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/wesleighn/playlist/1243hBpY80rnTZr0xywhYH?si=P10jiX-jTCS-2dtmgWUUBQ).


End file.
